


I Get Off Early on Thursdays

by SherlocksSister



Series: Tuesdays and Thursdays [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 31 Days of Porn Challenge 2017, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, John is a Very Good Doctor, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Anguish, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Sherlock is a good brother, Size Kink, Uniform Kink, Waistcoats, Wet Dream, mental health treatment, post-s4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2018-11-01 14:27:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10923711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlocksSister/pseuds/SherlocksSister
Summary: Mycroft Holmes takes a rare opportunity to indulge in his sensual side.This follows on from 'Doing Better' , but all you really need to know is that Mycroft has recently increased his personal security in response to the events at Sherrinford and his new close protection agent,  Robert Evans,  is an intriguing addition to his household.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The Experiments on a Tuesday universe continues to expand. I will be using prompts from the 31 Days of Porn to write my first Mycroft work. Further characters will be added in subsequent chapters. This chapter is for the prompt Food

Meeting, after interminable meeting, means that it is nearly ten p.m. by the time Mycroft’s driver brings his car to a halt at his front door. The last, and longest, meeting had involved intelligence information, counter intelligence information, a rogue CIA agent and his Russian lover. The whole thing was a diplomatic mess and Mycroft was exhausted.

The front door was opened by Evans, head of his security team at home and Mycroft’s personal close protection agent. The events at Sherrinford  - and Sherlock’s little stunt - having sufficiently unsettled Mycroft to force him to increase his security.

Evans stood back to usher his boss inside, taking the proffered brief case for checking.

“Good evening, Evans. ”

“Sir. How was your day?”

“Tiresome.”

“Yeah, the handover report from delta team said you spent four and a half hours in your last meeting?”

“Indeed. A matter I am unable to discuss, Evans, you understand. Suffice to say, we had to get into the nitty gritty of the issue.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the man who knew exactly who he had been meeting with.

“Anna has dinner waiting. She left about an hour ago; you go and change, I’ll heat it up for you.”

“I’m sure that is very kind of you, but-”

“You will eat it, Sir. My report informs me you have not eaten since breakfast.”

Anger flares in Mycroft’s chest; this is the second day in a row Evans has been presumptuous enough to tell him what to do. He allowed it to slide yesterday, but really, this was overstepping the mark quite considerably. Drawing himself to his full height, he does something else he is unaccustomed to and glares up at Evans who was stood with his muscular arms crossed in front of his broad chest, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Mycroft opens his mouth to remind Captain Evans of his job, his position in the household and of the fact that as Mycroft ran most of the British Government, plus a good bit of several other countries on the quiet, he was perfectly capable of looking after himself. Unfortunately, this tirade was halted in its tracks by Evans.

“Yes, Sir, I am aware that you are a grown man. Quite aware.” Evans twitches an eyebrow. “But, I am an army man and the old adage that an army marches on its stomach is a good one. You have worked for fourteen hours straight on a yogurt, two bananas and half a chocolate chip cookie. It is not good enough and you  _ will _ have something to eat.”

Mycroft gathers his not-inconsiderable resources. The last time anyone had spoken to him like this, other than a member of either his own or the Royal family, they had found themselves rapidly relocated to an top-secret base in the Arctic.

“I am-”

Evans cuts him off again. “Sir. My job, as far as I can gather from my 42 page job description, is essentially to keep you safe from harm. In the weeks I have been here, it has become crystal clear that the single largest threat to your safely and well being is yourself. You barely eat, you sleep infrequently and drink far too much whiskey. Now, Sir,” he drawls the last word sarcastically, “I know you are not used to doing as you are told, but I am telling you to. Eat. Your. Dinner.”

Simultaneously, two parts of Mycroft’s brain launch war on itself. He is infuriated at the audacity, the sheer breaking of protocol by this man speaking to him in such a way. The other part breaths out a sigh of relief, relaxes and sighs ‘finally’ at the fact that someone else is in charge, however momentarily.

Clearly, the latter part of his brain is also in control of his motor functions and Mycroft sits. Evans grins at him, a small, but annoying acknowledgement of his victory. Mycroft smooths his trousers over his thighs as waits while Evans reheats his meal and delivers it to the table.

Unbidden, he also brings two glasses, filling the first with sparkling water and the second with a white wine from the fridge. Mycroft quirks an eyebrow at this, but again remains silent, contemplating the glazed fillet of salmon before him, the small side salad and delicate cross hatch of a few chunky, homemade chips. It did seem appealing, even if the chips were an overindulgence.

“I am disinclined to eat alone. Please, join me.” Mycroft waves an imperious hand at the chair next to him. Evans, still silent, makes himself tea and pulls a chocolate biscuit from a tin before joining his charge at the table.

The salmon is delicious, melting on Mycroft’s tongue, zipping with chillies and lemon from its dressing. He scoops up a fork full of salad, his mouth sparking with balsamic and honey dressing. Unexpectedly, he exhales a sigh of pleasure, the sound amplified by the silence. Evans, his bulk filling the dining room chair, smiles gently, never taking his eyes off the man next to him. Absorbed, as he is in the textures on his palate, Mycroft fails to observe that the man is staring at his mouth.

“Salt, Sir, or maybe ketchup?” Evans nods at the golden, crispy chips. Mycroft hesitates; he knows he is close to the boundary of losing his self control, succumbing to these tastes, textures and smells he works so hard not to give in to. His imagination fills with the smell of vinegar and his brain assaults him with a rush of memories; the sea, gulls curling loudly overhead, the heat of the sun warming his back.  Then, another memory washes in, breaking over the first; Eurus and the balcony at Sherrinford.

Evans watches the face in front of him morph from satisfaction, through a complex shifting of emotions, to settle on distaste. With dismay, he sits back in his chair as Mycroft carefully lays his knife and fork down on his plate and pushes it away.

Robert Evans is not so easily defeated, though. He has not been a soldier almost his entire adult life without learning a few things about losing a battle to win the war. Wordlessly, he removes the half full plate and leaves it by the sink. Opening the fridge, he then cuts two slivers of the chocolate cheesecake he had asked Anna to make. He has observed that the few things Mycroft Holmes does eat are often sweet and usually baked.

He lays the deserts in front of them and hands Mycroft a fork. Mycroft considers the dark chocolate cheesecake, the faintest hint of orange in its scent, the glossy ganache topping shining under the dim kitchen lights. He slices through the very tip of the triangle, absorbed by the complete lack of resistance from the moussey cheesecake.

The bitter, dark chocolate melts over his tongue, a hit of sweet ending with a sharp pang of orange. Mycroft closes his eyes and groans. Beside him, his head of security smiles and, as Mycroft licks his lips to capture a missed crumb of biscuit base, shifts slightly in his seat. Mycroft opens his eyes to meet dark brown eyes gazing back at him.

Unable to resist, Mycroft takes a second piece, larger than the first. His appreciation is quieter now but from under his lashes he glances at Evans next to him, also relishing the luxurious delight. He watches as the man's lips close over his own fork full and then slowly pulls it back out. Momentarily, Mycroft is transfixed.

Gathering his usual authority back around himself, Mycroft pushes back from the table.

“Thank you, Evans. It would appear you were correct. I do feel considerably better for having enjoyed a meal. Now, it is late. I wish you good night. “

“Sir.” Evans gets to his feet. “I’ll walk with you to your room. Do a quick sweep. Y’know, just for your own peace of mind.”

There is a sharp electric buzz down Mycroft’s spine at this suggestion and he acquiesces with a nod. In his bedroom, Evans does an efficient sweep of the room, checking all the windows, including the small one in the en suit, are all locked and their monitoring is in place. He drops to his belly to check under the bed, only to spring up equally quickly. Mycroft cannot help but watch the man’s powerful biceps flex and straighten as he pushes up from the floor.

Satisfied all is in order, Evans nods and wishes Mycroft a good night, pulling the door closed behind him.

Mycroft throws himself on the bed, replete and tired. Yet, something is still fizzing under his skin. Sitting up, Mycroft begins to remove his pinstripe waistcoat. Unintentionally, he brushes a finger over one nipple and is astounded to find it hard and the touch of his own hand sends shocks to his cock. This is not something he has experienced in quite some time. Tentatively, he removes the waistcoat and starts on his ice blue shirt. The silk electrifies the skin of his chest and back, ripples of sensation trickling over him. A sharp sigh and Mycroft surrenders; it was the food, the glorious tastes and scents that ignited this in him, the sensuality he works so hard to tamp down, to control, to defeat.

This time though, in the dark and quiet of his home, safe and secure, he lets go and indulges. He drapes the shirt over his chest, the silk cool over his nipples. Mycroft stretches out full length, occupying the whole of his huge bed, reaches down and unzips his trousers.

His cock is already hard as he reaches in, stroking himself through the fabric of his briefs, just the tips of his manicured fingers ghosting over the full length of himself. He can smell his own arousal but picks up the faintest hint of something else; Evans’ aftershave. It lingers in the air and Mycroft’s cock twitches as he identifies it. Pressing up into his hand, Mycroft pushes his trousers and underwear to his knees. Spreading his knees as far apart as he can, he takes himself in hand fully, slowly stroking from base to tip, left hand reaching down, holding his balls, fingers pressing into his perineum. An image flashes into his mind as he gradually speeds up his hand, revelling in the pleasure, the heaviness spreading down his inner thighs, an image of a flexing bicep, rapidly followed by lips, pursed and sucking. Mycroft imagines it is Evans’ that has his hand wrapped around his cock and that he is watching that huge, defined muscle flex and relax as he rubs Mycroft faster and faster.

Groaning in the back of his throat, low and quiet, the image changes as Mycroft pushes up off the bed into his own hand. Now, those lips are wrapped around his cock, moving up and down, a tongue licking, flicking out to…

Mycroft comes, balls pulling up hard, his orgasm lifting him up off the bed, a sharp shout escaping as semen shoots onto the silk shirt, creating pools of indigo blue. Panting, he deliberately avoids thinking about what he has just done for the first time in months. Instead, Mycroft kicks off his trousers and pulls the duvet up over himself, happily drifting off to sleep.

Outside his door, his bodyguard faces away from the cctv camera to adjust himself and goes to review the security tapes. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft reaches out for help as the repercussions of Sherrinford continue to plague him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back from my holiday of a lifetime and back to earth with a bump. What better to cure the post-holiday blues than porn? This chapter is for the prompt Misunderstandings.

A single bead of sweat drips from Mycroft’s nose and falls through his fingers onto the documents in front of him. His breathing ratchets up as the images bombard him; the prison governor’s blood on the floor, three men dangling by their necks, his little brother holding a gun beneath his own chin. The final image is the one that haunts him most often; at night when he tries to sleep and during the days when, like today, he pushes himself to the edge of exhaustion. 

As his breathing begins to even out, Mycroft flops back in his chair, hands grasping at the desk edge. Its getting worse instead of better and his determination to ignore it and push through doesn’t appear to be working. His disregard of the oft repeated, and never solicited, advice that he should talk to someone is beginning to come into question and he doesn’t know what annoys him more; the idea of having to talk to a stranger about his thoughts and feelings, or having been wrong. 

There is one person, of course, that he has spoken to about the events of that awful day. One person he feels moderately comfortable with. Would that person consider a longer conversation?

Mycroft’s hand hovers over his phone, unfamiliar indecision coursing through him. Eventually, he chooses to just get on with signing off his piles of paperwork. That is, until he realises his hand is shaking so much he is incapable. He picks up the phone and searches for the number. Despite having taken weekly calls from the number over the last couple of months, this is the first time he has ever called it back. It only rings twice before being answered.

“Alright, Mycroft? What can I do for yer? Is it Sherlock? Bloody hell, What’s he done now?” 

“Good Afternoon, Detective Inspector. No, my call does not, for once, relate to my errant brother. I wish to make a request of you, if it is not too much of an imposition?”

“Go on.” 

“No need to be concerned, this is not an official matter.”

Greg laughs. “Well, I was wondering what I was getting myself into this time. So, if it’s not Sherlock, and it’s not official business, what is it?”

“Indeed, to the point. I was wondering of you might care to join me for dinner some evening this week. I would find it most amenable to meet with you and discuss certain matters.

“Oh. Um, yeah, of course.” Greg was taken aback. All his suggestions to meet for a coffee or go for a walk over recent weeks have been politely, but firmly, turned down. So much so, he had given up trying, despite his concerns. And now, here was Mycroft inviting him to dinner out of the blue. “I have to work tonight and tomorrow, but I could do Thursday?”

“Excellent. I get off early on Thursdays. Shall I book us a table?”

“Ok. Please, but-”

“A suit, Detective Inspector, and I shall send a car. Be ready for 8 p.m.”

“Er, yeah. Thanks. See you Thursday then?”

“Indeed. Thursday.”

“Oh and Mycroft, it’s Greg, remember?”

It was too late, Mycroft has already ended the call.

____________

A major incident at an installation on The Isle of Man keeps Mycroft occupied for the next two days so that by the time he arrives home on Thursday, he is already running behind. He might have considered cancelling had it not been for the disturbing panic attack he had, hidden in his private bathroom, as he convinced himself that blood was not seeping towards him from under the door.

The need to talk the occurrences at Sherrinford through with someone had reached tipping point and he could think of no one more suitable than Greg Lestrade in which to confide. Sherlock did not need to bear the weight of Mycroft’s grief and remorse; he had enough of his own. He could turn to a professional but after his sister’s trick with John, he was hesitant. No, as Sherlock had so kindly pointed out, what he needed was a friend and Greg Lestrade was the closest thing he had to one. 

For the first four weeks after the events of Sherrinford, Lestrade had phoned him every Wednesday evening to see how he was. Although Mycroft was reluctant to admit it, these calls had come to mean a great deal to him. Greg had the added advantage of having been there, cutting through the need for long drawn out explanations. He was also a man versed in violence and death, didn’t shy away from the difficult things in life, but rather faced them head on and then did something about it. Mycroft’s life was all about duty and Greg Lestrade lived that too. Yes, Greg Lestrade would be able to help.

Having swiftly changed into a navy blue three piece suit and crisp white shirt, he meets Evans as he descends the stairs.

“Are you going out, Sir?”

“Yes. I have a meeting.”

“It’s not in your itinerary. Give me five minutes and I will be ready to accompany you.”

“That shall not be necessary.”

Robert Evans frowns, then sighs. “Sir, the whole point of a close protection officer is to stay close. I have to come with you.”

Mycroft is unsure why he doesn’t want Evans with him. He suspects it may have something to do with the man’s biceps that have come to be very distracting but he realises it is also interconnected with a desire to be alone with Greg Lestrade. Whether that is because he needs privacy for their conversation, or for other reasons, he chooses not to examine further. Despite this, he also knows that Evans is correct and that going without him would be a foolish risk. He concedes the point with a sharp nod.

“Very well, but you will maintain watch from a distance.”

Evans does not reply but five minutes later is in the front seat next to the driver while Mycroft is left alone in the back, resolutely not thinking about his increasingly muddled feelings.

Greg Lestrade is waiting outside his house as the car draws up, smart in a new black suit. He has also had his hair trimmed, Mycroft deduces, and bought two new ties, finally deciding to wear the grey one three minutes before he left the house.

Ten minutes later and Evans is opening the car door for them, having undertaken a swift reconnaissance of the restaurant. He follows the two men up the stairs, a bit close for Greg’s comfort, and he is just about to ask the looming man to back off a bit when he diverts to stand by the main entrance, out of earshot but keeping his charge in view.

“Your security guy’s a bit intense.” Greg mutters. “You could have left him at home. I do know a bit about keeping people safe.”

Something peculiar flips in Mycroft's chest at the idea of Greg Lestrade keeping him safe. He decides he must be hungrier than he realised. They are shown to their quiet curved booth near the back of the restaurant, the high black leather seats providing them with some privacy; Mycroft has no desire to be overheard. 

They chat over their starters, swapping work stories of murder and mayhem, albeit it on different scales. They briefly discuss the development in Sherlock and John’s relationship.Gradually , Mycroft feels himself relax. The food is delicious and the wine exquisite. Bolstered by the alcohol and general feeling of well being, he blurts out.

“There is something I wish to discuss with you. I do not want to make you uncomfortable, but I consider you to be my...” Mycroft pauses, hoping he has not misjudged the situation, “my friend and -”

Greg slides along the black leather seating until their legs gently touch at the knee.

”I’m honoured, Mycroft. Yeah, we’re mates, although…” Greg rests his hand lightly on Mycroft’s thigh. “I think I know what you want to discuss. Don’t worry, I’m not a bit uncomfortable.” To prove his point, Greg slides his hand to the top of Mycroft’s thigh, squeezes and leans into plant a kiss on Mycroft’s cheek.

Mycroft draws away, startled. “What? No, I mean-. What?” He shakes his head at Greg. What on earth is going on in his life? First, Lady Smallwood, then his succumbing to fleshly pleasures in his room the other night and now this. How had he given Greg the impression he wanted… wanted... 

Confused, Greg draws away, removing his hand. “Sorry. Sorry. I just. It’s that. Shit, Mycroft, I thought you had asked me out. I thought this was date.”

A date. Mycroft has never actually invited anyone on a date. He rapidly reviews the evening - the invitation, the nice restaurant, the good suit and even a private booth. Upon reflection, he can see how Greg could have drawn such a conclusion. Except, and to Mycroft it’s a fairly significant exception, that date would be with him. Why on earth would Greg want to be on a date with him?

Greg was now sat on the far side of the booth, fiddling with his napkin. Mycroft felt a wave of warmth wash through him as he realised that this clever, brave, compassionate man who had done so much for his city and, in particular, for Sherlock had thought Mycroft was asking him out - and had accepted. 

“And you wanted to go on a date with me?” Mycroft raises a quizzical eyebrow.

“Well... yes. You’re a handsome man, Mycroft Holmes, all lithe, besuited, sexiness with a huge heart and…”

Insulted, Mycroft splutters. “I do not have a huge heart.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, you do. I’ve known you, what, eleven years now? And in that time, you have done nothing but protect the country and try to look after your pain-in-the-arse little brother. Time and time again you drag him out of trouble, patch him up and protect him. Then, you extend that considerable protection to those he cares about; John, Rosie - even me. So, yeah. Huge heart.”

“I feel you do me a kindness I do not deserve. The events at Sherrinford. My sister...”

“Ok, so maybe you did fuck up a bit there. I’m not sure of everything that went down or what motivated some of your choices, but I can see that a lot of it stemmed from trying to protect your family, all of them.”

“You extend me too much leeway. I’m afraid not all my motives were entirely selfless.”

“Well, maybe if you had had someone to discuss your decisions with, you might have made better ones.” He slid back close to Mycroft, dropping his voice.

“Look. I’m not saying we have to get married or anything, but we could have a bit of fun. I’m not sure if I have mentioned it, but I fancy the pants off you - been desperate to wrinkle that waistcoat for years now. We get on - you said we were friends - what do you think?”

Did Mycroft find Greg Lestrade attractive? He had honestly not given it any thought before. Sex and its associated messes was something Mycroft had not considered for quite a number of years. It was inconvenient, to say the least, to his work, his concentration and left one … vulnerable. Mycroft scanned Greg in the flick of an eyelash, collating data about his musculature, height, hair, and the way his torso remained taught even at the age of 53. Why did he know how old Lestrade was? When had he collected that piece of data? His eyes dwelled infinitesimally longer on the other man’s hands. They were smoother and younger looking than he would have expected. His scan ended back at the deep brown eyes smiling at him; glowing with the fun he had just suggested. Fun. Now there was an idea. Mycroft was not entirely sure he cared for having fun, or how one went about doing it. Certainly, he disapproved of his brother’s shenanigans in the name of fun. One thing he did know, however, was that he needed something to change. If he continued living the way he was, it was all going to fall in on him like a house of cards. Indeed, he suspected the roof may already have begun to cave in slightly. And yes, he concluded, if I am to try having fun, I would be happy to try it in the company of such a man as Greg Lestrade.

These contemplations having only taken Mycroft microseconds, Lestrade experiences his response as immediate.

“I feel I should warn you that having fun is not really my area. However, I am prepared to give it a try.”

Greg laughs loudly. “Good man. I knew you would be up for a challenge. Now, let’s start by having another bottle of wine, something off that ludicrous dessert trolley and then you can tell me why you actually did invite me to dinner. We’ll take it from there.”

The following hour passes in a blaze of conversation, a delightfully dry wine and more dessert than Mycroft has eaten in a while. He had suggested they share one but Lestrade had refused. “Fuck off, I’m not sharing my salted caramel cheesecake with anyone. Get your own.” Mycroft had broached the subject of his ‘episodes’, the startling hallucinations and way they were affecting his ability to work. 

“Frankly, I’m not surprised. Actually, knowing what I do about PTSD, I’m surprised that’s all you are experiencing. I’m no expert but we get a lot of training about these things, what with all the dead bodies and things we see every day. The Force has specialist counsellors and therapists they insist we talk to. Sometimes, all you want to do is forget it and move on, but other times…” Greg’s head dips and he swallows, “Yeah, other times, your brain just won’t let you. You have to face it, talk it through. Sounds to me like your brain is doing exactly that. So, go on, pretend I’m your therapist. Tell me.” So, Mycroft did.

Lestrade listened carefully for a full half hour, never interrupting, occasionally sipping his wine. Mycroft confessed his shame at vomiting at the sight of the Prison Warden’s body on the floor, his fear when he woke up alone in Sherrinford that Sherlock was dead; and his relief at still being alive himself. His guilt at the realisation that, by giving his sister access to Moriarty, he had triggered years of hell for his brother.

Towards the end, Lestrade sits close and takes Mycroft’s hand, holding it softly in his own lap. As Mycroft wipes his face with exhaustion, Lestrade brings their fingers to his mouth and kisses the fingers. 

“That’s enough for now, Mycroft. You can stop punishing yourself now. We can talk about this again, soon, I promise, but you have done enough self-flagellation for one evening.” He slides an arm over Mycroft’s shoulders, leans in and kisses his cheek. Mycroft leans his weight back into Greg, whose face nuzzles into the crook of his neck, nose stroking the skin above Mycroft’s perfectly starched shirt collar. They sit, comfortable and warm for a moment, breathing deeply until Greg raises his head and slowly, gently, kisses Mycroft’s lips, a soft, lingering moment.

Mycroft sighs and relaxes, falling even more into the arm around him. 

“Let’s go home. Let me make you feel better.” Greg whispers into the ear resting on his arm.

Mycroft thinks of his home, the sterile underused kitchen, the pristine bedrooms, the empty, never lit fireplace in the front room, the single setting at the dining table. His bolt hole. His place of safety. The warmth of Greg’s body seeps through his suit and into his skin. How much warmer would it be without these many layers of fabric, if they were skin to skin? 

“Agreed.”

As he stands to leave, Mycroft’s eye is drawn to Evans stood patiently at the door. Their eyes meet for only the briefest of moments and Mycroft is puzzled by what he sees there in the fraction of a second before Evans looks away again. As Mycroft and Lestrade come level with him, he is silent, only responding with a nod as Mycroft informs him quietly that they are returning home. Greg stays close, a hand in the small of Mycroft’s back guiding the taller man out. Once they slip into the back of the car, Greg sits close and takes Mycroft’s hand. It’s warmth and gentleness fill Mycroft with a sweet melancholy; is this a wise decision, opening himself up to the risks of getting involved with another human being? For either of them?

Mycroft falls back to his usual position of formality and reserve when they reach the house, his growing anxiety masked by extreme good manners. Evans returns to the security team’s office without a word and Mycroft fusses as he leads Greg into the formal front living room.

“Tea? Or coffee, maybe? Possibly you would prefer something stronger, I have a very good-”

Lestrade cuts him off, reducing Mycroft’s sentence to a gentle ‘oof’ when he slides his hands up Mycroft’s neck and behind his head, pulling him down into a firm kiss. Mycroft kisses him back, still and a little hesitant, his hands hanging by his sides until Greg steps closer still and grazes the tip of Mycroft’s tongue with the tip of his own.

The sensation flitters in zig zags throughout Mycroft’s stomach and he is shocked to hear himself give the tiniest of groans, audible nonetheless. Encouraged, Greg runs one hand down the front of Mycroft’s immaculate tie, over his perfect white shirt and slips around his waist, outside of his waistcoat but inside his suit jacket. Greg pulls Mycroft closer, slipping his thigh between Mycroft’s legs as he works at removing the jacket.

Mycroft can feel his layers of reserve dissolving, his precious self-protection being discarded with his suit jacket that Greg carefully lays on the nearby sofa arm. Mycroft finds this small gesture make his stomach lurch uncomfortably and his chest expand. Throwing caution to the wind he reaches down and grasps Greg’s arse and pulls them even closer, his tongue thrusting and claiming. Greg moans at this unexpected change in dynamic, hand dropping to start undoing Mycroft’s waistcoat. Kisses coming hard and fast, Mycroft attempts to unbutton Greg’s shirt. His hands are clumsy and uncoordinated and with just the three top buttons undone, he is annoyed at his amateurish attempts. All other thoughts suddenly drop away when Greg pushes forward and Mycroft can feel his very hard erection pressing into the groove of his own hip. A tiny movement to the right and Mycroft groans, loud and needy as Greg’s cock presses against his own.

Somehow, Greg has both their shirts undone and is mouthing Mycroft’s collarbone, kissing his neck and the sparse red hair that cover his chest. By contrast, Greg has thick dark brown hair across his chest, shrouding his nipples and trailing all the way down his abdomen. 

“C’mon” Greg urges, taking his hand and leading Mycroft to the sofa. The break gives Mycroft the chance to push the shirt off Greg’s broad shoulders, revealing toned shoulders and arms. Greg pushes him back onto the sofa and slides a soft hand under Mycroft’s shirt, smoothing and stroking his chest. Mycroft cannot help but arch up into his touch, revelling in the sensations coursing across his skin. It has been so long since anyone at all has been allowed to touch him and these strokes are firm and warm, soothing and calming.

Greg is lying on top of him now, dotting soft kisses on Mycroft’s neck, his chest and stomach. 

“God, your freckles are gorgeous, Mycroft. One day, I’d like to lay you out and kiss every single one.”

Mycroft considers this idea, visualising his own pale body laid out on his bed upstairs, head cushioned in pristine white pillows, swimming in blissful delight as Greg’s head hovers over him. He is brought sharply back to reality by Greg grinding his extremely hard cock into Mycroft’s, rutting and pushing against their full lengths. Good grief, but it feels fantastic and Mycroft pushes back, hard, making Greg cry out. “Ah, fuck. Please. Mycroft, please I want. Can I?” His hand is fluttering at Mycroft’s waistband. 

More than anything right now, Mycroft wants Greg to touch him, wants to be able to let go and enjoy this, to be able to think of nothing but pleasure and desire, but he just can’t, not just yet. He doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t have the right to carry on as if nothing has happened, nothing has changed. Unable to explain, he shakes his head but instead reaches for Greg, running his hand over the full length of his cock through his tight trousers, scooping down to gently squeeze his balls. Any objections Greg may have had are lost as he groans and pushes back into Mycroft’s long fingers, rocking urgently into his palm. “Oh, yes, Mycroft. I… ah, that’s so. Nnng.”

Mycroft unzips Greg’s trousers, reaches in and frees his dark, leaking cock. He strokes his finger tips up and down the length, once, twice before he grips firmly and slides his fist up and over the swollen head. Greg is panting now, arms shaking with the effort of pushing himself up high enough off Mycroft to make space for Mycroft to be able to move his hand. He is fucking Mycroft’s hand hard, head dropped down to Mycroft’s chest, panting and groaning. When he comes, it’s hard and semen lands high up on Mycroft’s abdomen, framed by his open shirt and waistcoat. 

A shaky, sweaty Greg collapses into his arms. Mycroft is still for a moment, feeling Greg’s heart thumping against his skin, the puffs of air from Greg’s nose tickling the skin on his chest. Then, carefully, he raises his two arms, holding Greg close as he recovers.

“What.” Greg manages to breath out, “About you? What do you need?” 

Mycroft just shakes his head, “I’m fine. Shh.” He just about manages to turn his head away, staring out of the dark beyond the french windows as a single tear drips from his nose and falls to his cream carpet.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The effects of Sherrinford continue to take their toll on Mycroft and cracks are beginning to appear. He makes some poor decisions but Captain Evans offers a place of safety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for the prompt, Uniform. I may have got a bit carried away.

Coffee going cold, Mycroft scans the newspaper headline. He has already trawled through the Financial Times, The Telegraph and The Times and knows he is missing something. He knows it has to be here somewhere, otherwise why would he have this awful feeling of dread, sitting like undercooked porridge in his stomach. He needs to find that single piece of data that will lead him in the right direction. Then he can  _ do _ something about it and this gnawing fear will lift.

He scowls over the top of his paper as Evans interrupts his train of thought, sitting into the chair opposite. Evans places a fresh cup of coffee in front of him and sips from his own mug. 

“Sir. I’m sorry to interrupt your breakfast.” He nods pointedly at the quarter-eaten Danish pastry abandoned beside the pile of papers. “We need to go through this week’s schedule and your security rota.”

“Please, Evans. You have been here quite some time. Call me Mycroft when we are at home.”

“Oh. Er, thank you Si.. Mycroft. It’s just that... I would prefer not to. What with the rest of the team, and everything, it would be more appropriate for me to stick to formalities.”

Mycroft sighs. “This is my home, Evans. I get quite enough of formalities when I am at work. I appreciate your position, but at least when we are alone, I insist you call me Mycroft.”

Evans sits back into his chair, arms crossed over his chest and chuckles, “You really don’t like to be told ‘no’, do you? I’m trying to do my job.”

“I shall admit I am unaccustomed to it. My brother being the main exception.” Mycroft smirks. He quite enjoys making this man laugh. Not given to brash displays of humour himself, it feels a long time since anyone laughed in this house.

“All right.” Evans gently rolls the ‘r’, notes of his Welsh accent trickling through his standard Army officer pronunciation. “If I call you Mycroft when we are alone together, you must call me Robert.”

“That would be acceptable. Robert.” Mycroft lifts his coffee cup in toast to their agreement.

“Mycroft.” Robert grins over the table at him. “Where’d you get a name like Mycroft from, anyway? Don’t think I’ve ever met another one.”

“Oh, it was my Mother’s idea. She has an ancestor with the surname Mycroft. Liked the name and wanted to keep it alive. She had, shall we say, unusual taste in names.”

“Indeed, as proven by your brother and sister. Which reminds me, I’ve been reviewing the security coverage from Sherrinford. All is in place and your brother’s making one of his scheduled visits in two weeks, and your parents in four.”

“I see.” Mycroft sighs. He is currently the only family member not regularly visiting Eurus.. He shudders at the idea, marveling at Sherlock’s ability to put what she did to them behind him.

“I have been though your work schedule and the teams are in place, both here and at headquarters. Any changes that I should know about?” 

Any  _ dates _ planned, Mycroft infers. A reasonable question. After the events of the previous evening Mycroft himself is at a loss to know. Being so overwhelmed had left Mycroft abraded, needing to withdraw. He had ushered Greg out of the house as fast as manners would allow. Greg had been contrite; had he pushed too hard? Had he misread the signs? Why had Mycroft not told him to stop? Mycroft had assured Greg he had been a perfectly willing participant and had enjoyed their evening together. He had been utterly at a loss to explain how he was feeling any further. That would have required some understanding of it himself. 

“Not as of this moment. However, I shall keep you informed should that change.”  _ Should  _ he change his mind, he wondered? He would give it some thought.

“I have one change of my own. My commanding officer has ordered me to attend a regimental function on Monday. I’ll be gone for approximately four hours, returning here at twenty-two hundred hours. I’ll be leaving you in the capable hands of Diggins. Between you and me, Mycroft, I’m hoping to be home sooner.” Mycroft frowned at this information and was aware of a nagging discomfort. He was also taken aback by Evan’s use of the word ‘home’ to refer to being here. It was Mycroft’s home and, granted, Evans was here an awful lot and had his own quarters, but was it his home? Did he consider it as such? How peculiar.

A phone call interrupts Mycroft’s musings. The agent sent to the Isle of Man to make delicate enquiries has been missing for two days; this morning their body has appeared, washed up on the beach. Mycroft signals to Evans that they needed to leave.

It takes three days, two helicopter rides and, annoyingly, one favour from his little brother to get to the bottom of the mess. Mycroft sleeps very little, surviving on adrenaline, biscuits, and a certain stiffening of the spine that comes from holding the safety of the nation in the palm of your hands.

________________

It is late afternoon when Mycroft completes the debrief and drifts home. Unpacking his briefcase at the dining table, Mycroft hears Evans’ sharp steps on the stairs behind him. Their greeting on his return home had been brief; curtailed to an exchange of pleasantries at the front door. Evans had then excused himself, reminding Mycroft of the personnel change that evening so he could attend his regiment’s gathering. 

Mycroft turns to make himself a coffee at the same time as Evans stops in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs. He is perfecting the angle of his cap in the mirror there. Transfixed,  Mycroft stares, coffee cup hovering in mid air. He has never seen Evans in uniform before and the sight is ...arresting. Mycroft steps to his right, able to watch Evans unobserved from this angle. 

The soldier is in his Household Cavalry dress uniform; knee high black boots shined within an inch of their life, tight tan jodhpurs covered by a long line fitted jacket the colour of damp earth and cinched at the waist by a black leather belt. There are epaulettes at the shoulders and a significant number of medal ribbons over his heart. Even from this position, Mycroft can distinguish the contrast between Evan’s narrow waist and expansive shoulders. The jacket has been cut over the arms and shoulders well enough to contain Evan’s powerful upper body while remaining form fitting. The effect is… Mycroft finds he is staring, his breathing fast and shallow. 

Having arranged the black, red-trimmed peaked hat to his satisfaction, Evans turns in his direction. Mycroft can now see that there is a black strap diagonally crossing Evan’s chest, waist to shoulder, to support the weight of his - good grief - his sword. 

The sight of the slim, silver handled rapier pushes Mycroft’s mind offline. Sudden, and dramatic, physical reactions have overwhelmed the system and he is being forced to reboot. He snaps back to reality only when Evans starts to stride towards him.

Later, Mycroft will give thanks for his unique processing speed that allows him to respond to any number of things simultaneously. It is this ability alone that saves him from mortification as he concurrently listens to what Evans is saying, produces a sensible response, turns enough to hide his astonishingly hard erection and maintains his usual dispassionate air. 

“-don’t wear it too often these days, I’m a bit out of practice.” Evans grins, “I had to re-polish them twice to make sure I’m even allowed in the door. Need to set those young ones an example, eh?” 

“Yes, indeed. Your tie is a little… May I?” Mycroft waves a hand at the knot in his own tie. 

“Yeah, please.”

Mycroft steps forward to straighten the pale tan tie that matches the jodhpurs. He collects a barrage of new data in the three seconds spent luxuriating in the warmth radiating from the taller man. Closeness of shave, type of aftershave, frequency of visits to the barber, shampoo, conditioner and shower gel used - even the identity of the dry cleaners chosen to maintain the uniform - is all sorted and filed away with ease.

Evans steps back, salutes Mycroft and executes a military turn on his heel. “Be nice to Diggins while I’m gone, Sir.”

Without response, Mycroft watches him leave, wiling away his erection and trying to make sense of what has happened. 

\------------------

That evening, he retreats to his reading room, a snug, wood-panelled room, lined with books. Pulling down an old friend; Gibbons’ ‘The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire’, Mycroft settles into his wing-backed, green leather chair. His eyes wander over the opening paragraph, read so often he can recite it. This time, the beloved words do not draw him into their usual nest of calm and contentment. Instead, images of Greg Lestrade float across the page, flashes of taut stomach muscles tensing, soft brown eyes and laughter - interspaced with jodhpur-covered thighs and the contrast of a black cap against grey hair. Exhausted, Mycroft closes his eyes against the surge of confusing images, irritation rising at the lust trickling through his body. It has been years since these unproductive urges have been so insistent. Is it possible that if he gives into them, even once, it might clear them out of his system? If he had only been able to relax and allow Greg bring him to orgasm, would he have returned to normality?.

On a whim, he reaches for his phone and opens Greg’s contact details. He runs models of seven possible outcomes to this call as the dialing tone rings trills three times.

“Mycroft. Hi.” Greg sounds sleepy. 

“Gregory. Apologies, if I have disturbed you.”

“Nah, you’re fine, I’m sitting in front of the telly. Everything OK? I know Sherlock was busy helping you out with something. How’d that pan out?”

“Brought to a satisfactory conclusion, thank you. He is all yours once again.” 

Greg chuckles at the idea. “God, I don’t think I could handle all of Sherlock - I’ll leave that to John and Rosie.”

“Gregory, I have been reviewing our last… meeting. I believe I owe you an apology.”

Mycroft could hear Greg pull himself upright. “God, no. It’s me that should be apologising. I still feel I pushed-”

“Nonsense. I am a grown adult, more than capable of making my own decisions. You were - it was -  fine. Fine. ”

There is a pause on the other end of the line. “Right. Ok, so just… fine then? Well, I suppose I should thank you for your directness, although why I should expect anything different from a Holmes, I don’t know?”

Mycroft frowns, unsure why the conversation has taken this tone; it had not been one of the possibilities he had projected.

“You misunderstand. I mean to say that what transpired was my own responsibility. Indeed, I was calling -”

“You know what Mycroft? I get that you might not be into all that, or it might have been a bit fast for you, or whatever, but you need to understand this; I’ve had a bit of a thing for you for ages. Yeah? Ages. I thought this was finally my chance, you know? So, if you’re not..and I understand if you don’t..  but if you’re not into it, p’raps it’d be better-”

“Oh, for goodness sakes, Greg, do spit it out!” 

The silence on the other end of the phone seems to last at least an hour as Mycroft waits impatiently. In reality, Greg only pauses for a couple of seconds. “Yeah. That about sums it up, actually.” He sighs. “Goodnight, Mycroft,” and hangs up.

Bamboozled, Mycroft stares at the phone. He has no idea what happened. He rang to apologize, to invite Gregory out again. He wanted to take Greg on a proper date this time, one where Greg chose the destination and they were both on the same page. How had he managed to mess it up?

Drained, Mycroft closes his eyes, leaning back into the chair. He is appalling at all this. 

_ Sherlock is standing in front of him, out of reach but close. He is wearing his pirate hat and holding a gun under his chin. Mycroft is desperate to reach him, to make him stop, but his feet won’t move and his arms are stuck to his sides. He is trying to shout but someone has their hand over his mouth. Eurus. She is whispering in his ear; endless, chanting words that blur together, confusing and distracting. John stands to one side watching them all, shaking his head in disbelief.  _

_ Sherlock steps forwards. “It’s all your fault for being so stupid.” Then he fires the gun. _

Mycroft wakes with a start, heart thumping, already half off his chair. Right outside the room door the noise comes again, a loud crash, followed by a series of shouts. Mycroft casts about for a potential weapon. Before he can find something, the door bursts open and a man charges at him, shouting. Instinctively, Mycroft lifts the heavy book in his lap to defend himself, half hitting, half throwing it at his assailant. It drops to the floor with a thud, missing its target completely. The same frigid feeling of powerlessness from his dream washes over him. Blood seeps from beneath his feet, pooling out on all directions until it laps at the feet of the man coming towards him. The man is shouting in his face now, arms outstretched, but Mycroft can only see his lips moving, the words nothing but noise. The blood is coming down the walls, slowly dripping from the panelling, drowning his beloved books. He lashes out but someone grips him by the arms, tightening them against his body. They crash to the floor together as another man enters the room, yelling orders.

Mycroft crawls into the corner of the room, body curled up in self defense, hands over his head. 

“Get out! All of you, get out. Diggins, clear up the bloody hallway!.”

There is silence as a gentle hand is laid on Mycroft’s leg. The loose, warm hand wraps around his ankle. He braces himself for the first strike.

“Mycroft. Its me, Robert. Robert Evans. Everything is OK, Mycroft. You’re fine. You’re safe.”

Unconvinced, Mycroft lowers his hands from his head and opens his eyes. His vision fills with acres of tan fabric, the shine of black leather. Crouching on the floor next to him, Robert carries on talking in a low, soothing voice.

“That’s it, that’s it. It’s just you and me.” 

Mycroft remains silent, on high alert. Robert crawls closer, his calm, quiet tone soothing.

“It was an escaped dog from next door, it triggered the perimeter lights and alarm.” Gentle fingers stroke the back of Mycroft’s hands, balled into his chest. 

“Mycroft, can you look at me?”

With a long, shuddering breath, Mycroft opens his eyes and turns towards Robert. His handsome face beams back.

“Well done. That’s it, now, keep looking at me. You’re going to be fine, just fine. I’m going to sit here for a moment, alright? Breathe with me.”

They sit side by side, leaning against the wall, for at least ten minutes. Mycroft follows Roberts gentle breathing pattern, trying to slow his own. 

“The… the bang?” He manages.

“Diggins was was in such a hurry to reassure you everything was OK, the idiot ran into the suit of armour on the landing. Sent the whole thing flying. Clumsy wanker. C’mon, let’s get you up will we?”

Robert gets to his knees and offers a hand to Mycroft. His expression is full of concern and Mycroft reaches out. The touch of Robert’s hand in his is like a new spark to the adrenaline still hurtling through his system. Without a single thought, Mycroft clambers to his knees, leans forwards and kisses Robert, crashing into him. 

Robert kisses him back, deep and hard. Immediately, he pulls back, a strangled groan of frustration in his throat.

“No, no. Mycroft. This is not a good idea. You are not in a good place. I can’t.”

Mycroft is not listening. He wants this man in a way he has not desired anyone in years and is accustomed to getting what he wants. Ignoring Robert’s protests, he shuffles closer, hands stroking hard, muscled thighs. He runs his hands over the belt and up over Robert’s chest and shoulders, up to the back of his head. This time, he pulls Robert into the kiss, holds him there, tongues probing. Mycroft pulls back first this time, breathing hard.

“Fuck it, Mycroft. If we’re going to do this - and I  _ really  _ want to do this - not here on the floor, these boots are killing me. I need to know you understand what is happening here. Talk to to me.”

“Captain Evans. I am completely aware of what I am doing and would much prefer if we could stop with the crisis of conscience and move on to the fucking.”

Robert’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. He stares at Mycroft for a moment, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. He nods.

“Don’t use that tone of voice on me, do you understand?” He holds out his hand and pulls Mycroft to his feet, “Go to your room and wait for me. I will be exactly three minutes and when I come to find you, I want you naked and on the bed waiting for me.” Robert’s voice is deep and commanding. Mycroft’s already hard cock throbs at the tone. He pulls down his waistcoat, smooths a hand over his hair and adjusts the line of the crease in his trousers. 

_______________

Mycroft does as instructed. He lies on the bed, his clothes left on top of his armoire, legs spread and his hard cock in his hand. He too knows this is a bad idea but cannot find it in him to care. Robert slips in the door, not opening it too wide,  and locks it behind him. Turning, he grins at the sight of Mycroft laid out before him.

Slipping off his shoes, he stands at the foot of the bed and unbuckles his belt, removing it and the cross strap. Mycroft watches with absolute concentration, unconsciously learning how the uniform fits together. He has a pang of regret for the loss of the sword and cap, presumably left in Robert’s room. 

“You like my uniform.” Mycroft restrains his automatic sarcasm at such a statement of the obvious. Instead, he wraps his hand firmly around his hard cock and gives it a squeeze, groaning in confirmation. 

Robert’s slow, wicked smile spreads. He lifts his eyebrows in acknowledgement. “Watch,” he commands.

Never taking his eyes from Mycroft’s, Robert begins to unbutton his long line jacket. He slides it from his shoulders, folding it into regimented creases, before leaving it on the floor at his feet. The shirt comes off next, unbuttoned from the neck down. Each opened button reveals a strong, muscled chest with a small gathering of grey hairs between the defined pectorals. As he slides the white shirt from his shoulders, Mycroft’s cock swells appreciatively at the taut biceps, broad and tanned forearms. Robert undoes his trousers. Mycroft expects them to drop to the floor, his mouth watering at the idea of the thighs beneath them. Instead, Robert dips his hand into the front, grips his own hard cock and lifts it from the confines of his clothes.

At the sight, Mycroft’s passivity leaves him. He scrambles to his knees, crawling to reach Robert; to devour that delicious-looking cock. 

“No.” Robert’s voice is low. “Sit. Down.” The men stare at each other for a second. Mycroft has not capitulated to anyone in years. As he looks into the hazel-green eyes of the expansive Welshman, something deep inside him uncurls and relaxes. He lowers his eyelids and obeys, resuming his position on the bed with a hum of acquiescence.

With surprising grace, Robert removes the rest of his clothes. He pauses at the end of the bed, both men’s eyes roaming in appreciation at the naked body in front of him. “You know this isn’t a good idea, don’t you?” 

Mycroft considers this statement. On one hand, Robert is at his place of work, in a position of trust and Mycroft is possibly not in his right mind. On the other hand, neither of them is on duty and Mycroft feels more in possession of his faculties at this moment than he has in a long time. 

“You may be correct in that assessment. Yet, at this moment in time, I am disinclined to care. I would use the vernacular appropriate to this moment and say ‘I don’t give a fuck’, however, that is  _ exactly  _ what I intend to do once you have struggled over to this bed.” 

Robert throws back his head in laughter, moves to the bed and crawls over Mycroft’s body. The muscles in his shoulders, arms and neck all contract under his skin as they take his weight. Mycroft is both aroused and a little alarmed at the predatory sight. If this man wanted to, he is more than capable of pining Mycroft down. A thrill shoots from his stomach and up his spine at this idea, much to Mycroft’s fascination. 

The first kiss comes as a shock. It is light, warm and gentle, a brush of lips across Mycroft’s navel, followed by another, and another, up his lean torso to his chest. Mycroft is not a small man but Robert’s size and strength leave him feeling fragile and delicate. Lips meet his and the kiss is hot, insistent and hard. Mycroft pushes his hips up, needing touch and pressure but meets nothing but empty space as Robert remains on his knees, caging Mycroft’s thighs.

Mycroft slides his hand between them, caressing Robert’s smooth, hard cock for the first time. This part of the man is as well-built at the rest of him; long, wide and curved in towards his belly, foreskin pulled back. Mycroft thrills as he trails his palm over it, gauging the weight, finger-tips brushing heavy balls and sliding up to the damp crown. Encouraged by the groan he receives in response, Mycroft strains upwards, reaching for a kiss.

He is surprised when Robert pulls back, sitting on his heels. Their fingers intertwine and in one swift movement, Robert pushes Mycroft’s hands above his head, pinning them there. Nudging himself between Mycroft’s knees, he keeps his body tantalisingly elevated. A single kiss to the lips is followed by nips and kisses up and down Mycroft’s neck. He bucks up, desperate for more contact, pulling at his hands, whining in the back of his throat. 

“Say, ‘Please’.” Robert growls in his ear, punctuated with a nip to the earlobe.

Mycroft glares up at him, aggrieved by his loss of control, the theft of his natural dominance. Robert’s response to his challenge is a series of slow, sweet kisses to Mycroft’s shoulders and dipping down to nip, then soothe, his nipples. 

The need for touch is overpowering. Mycroft wriggles his hips as far up as he can within the cage of Robert’s far stronger thighs. He bucks his chest up, forcing his nipples further into Robert’s mouth, keening in frustration. Robert shifts his weight, so he can hold both of Mycroft’s wrists with one hand, leaning more of his weight onto them. The index finger of his right hand meanders down; over Mycroft’s shoulder, the outside of his ribs, dusting over his hip, inwards, inwards until he reaches...nothing. The finger vanishes and Mycroft half cries, half growls out with need. Robert’s kiss captures the sound.

“Say, ‘Please’, Mycroft.”

All of Mycroft Holmes’ need for authority, his power-hungry machinations and self-serving manipulations drift away on the rip-tide of lust and want that submerge him. He lets go.

“Pleeeaase.” The word, part begging, part demanding, collides off the walls.

Crashing his lips to Mycroft’s, Robert drops his full weight down, right arm shaking with the release of his weight. His hips cant up into Mycroft’s, the first slide of their cocks together making them both cry out. Robert wraps his large hand around them both as, for the first time, Mycroft is able to sweep his hands over the other man’s back and grip his arse. 

“Oh my God, you’re glorious.” 

Mycroft, pushing greedily; hard and fast, lets the endearment slide past him. He pulls Robert closer, as the other man cradles the back of his head. Sweating, sliding, each man chases their orgasm. When it hits, Mycroft is stung by the sharp sweep of pleasure deep in his belly and through his cock, coming all over his chest. Robert’s own come pools with his moments later. He lifts up to give Mycroft more room to breathe and rolls onto his back. 

Mycroft turns onto his side, resting his head on Robert’s bicep. He watches as the other man’s breathing returns to normal and Robert turns his head to grin down at him. Curling up, Mycroft settles into the crook of Robert’s arm and closes his eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's mental health continues it's downward spiral, but help is on hand, including from unexpected sources.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been struggling to write recently, but my mojo is back. I have chapter 5 of this ready for editing and a new chapter of The Relationship Investigations plotted out so am officially back on the horse. Prompt for this chapter is body fluids.

A single bead of sweat drips down the side of Mycroft’s nose. His hands are too busy clenching the arms of his swivel chair to brush it away and he tries to ignore the tickle as it reaches his top lip. 

He is determined to keep as quiet as he can, ever conscious of the staff sat in their own office, immediately outside his door. Hips and thighs straining, he reaches down to leave a hand on the head between his legs. Wrapping his long fingers into the short strands, he flexes his fingers, tightening and loosing his grip. He matches the rhythm of the other man’s tongue and gazes down as the man fists his own hard prick. 

‘You don’t deserve this’, repeats over and over in Mycroft’s head.

He watches the other man’s lips sliding up and down his hard cock, a trail of saliva glistening in their wake. The movement is hypnotic and, for a moment, Mycroft’s mind circles away from the physical pleasure, the debauched scene in front of him. He finds himself floating in a void; a blank, empty space. It is glorious.

A groan from the other man’s mouth, echoing along his cock and resonating in his balls, hurtles Mycroft back to this moment and the realisation the he is too close. Gripping hard, he shoves Greg’s head back and away a fraction of a second before his orgasm hits and clutches hard at Greg’s hair as semen spurts over his still-buttoned waistcoat.

Greg is on his knees, shaking from his own wanked-out orgasm, head bent. An image overlays the scene, uninvited, of another man on his knees, shaking and pleading. Mycroft hears the Warden begging, then the shot. The small pool of Greg’s semen on the floor glistens and turns blood red.

The Warden raises his head, blood pouring from the wound under his chin, meets Mycroft’s eyes and speaks “Look what you’ve done to me.”

Twisting suddenly in his seat, Mycroft grabs his waste bin and vomits. Shaking, he reaches for a tissue from his desk drawer and wipes his mouth. He uses a fresh tissue to wipe the sweat from his face and only then realises tears are seeping down his face.

Greg staggers to his feet, stepping back, giving them both some space. He looks Mycroft over, raising his hands in front of him, a surrender. 

“Mycroft are you….?” Greg struggles to know what to ask. He is beginning to understand that there is definitely something out of the ordinary going on with the usually collected, implacable Mycroft, but is at a loss.

Greg reaches out a hand to comfort Mycroft, who lies twisted in a heap over his desk, shoulders shaking. His hand catches the sandwiches he brought with him, sending them flying off the desk. It had all seemed such a good idea; pop over with lunch as a peace offering, clear the air and make up for their disastrous phone call the previous evening. 

Mycroft’s resulting abject apology and offer to make it up to him had surprised Greg. Mycroft leaning over his own desk, taking Greg’s sandwich-filled hands hands, and pulling him into a blistering kiss had been even more surprising. 

He sighs to himself. It had all been going so well. Mycroft had clearly wanted him and it had been thrilling, everything Greg had long envisioned. He had been disappointed when Mycroft had pushed him off so roughly as he came, but that was alright, some men didn’t like to make you swallow. Mycroft Holmes was nothing if not well-mannered.

Greg rests a soft hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. In one part of his mind, Mycroft is embarrassed at letting the other man see him like this, wants to crawl under the table and hide. He considers ordering Greg to get out, leave him in peace. All he wants is some peace, some sleep, to rest. Another part of his mind gives him a gentle nudge; Greg is a good man. Greg will understand. He can help you. He has seen this all before. 

The stench of his own vomit assaults Mycroft’s nostrils, forcing him to move. He raises his head and meets Greg’s brown eyes, hoping he can convey even a little of what he needs.

The look in Mycroft’s eyes hits Greg in the chest like the blow of a rubber bullet to an armoured vest. Without hesitation, he leans down and passes a fleeting stroke over Mycroft’s cheek and presses a hint of a kiss to his temple. In silence, he eases Mycroft out of the chair and to his feet. Greg wraps his arms around Mycroft’s chest, pulling him close.

“We are taking you home.” 

He considers that a hospital might be a better option, but not a public A and E. He’ll need to make some calls to decide what avenue is best to pursue. Arm wrapped around Mycroft’s back, half holding him up, Greg steers them to the door. As soon as they step into the next room, the security detail and PA are on their feet and on the move towards them.

“Mr. Holmes is not feeling too well. Get him a car, I am taking him home.” He nods to security. “You can travel with us if necessary.” He turns to the PA. “There is some clearing up needed.” He tips his head backwards towards the office. Mycroft looks at his feet throughout the brief discussion.

In the car, Mycroft remains silent. He watches the world pass, disinterested and unaffected. Greg cautiously reaches between them and takes Mycroft’s left hand. He gets no response. He calls John, grateful when he picks up.

“Yeah, John, look, I have a bit of an odd question for you, mate. If you needed to take Sherlock to hospital, but it was all a bit on the Q-T, like, where would you take him? I mean, where would Mycroft have him sent? No, no, I’m fine…..yeah, it’s for an investigation. You know posh blokes and their ways better than I do.” He fakes a smile down the phone trying not to alarm John. He squeezes Mycroft’s hand, but the other man continues to stare out of the window.

John gives him the name of a private hospital no more than ten minutes away. There has been no reaction from Mycroft at the mention of hospital and Greg wonders if the absence of disagreement is a type of consent, or if the other man is unaware of the phone conversation. The silent man sitting next to him is so far removed from the powerful, controlled man he has admired for years that he wonders if he is out of his depth here. It’s obvious Mycroft needs some kind of help, but what? And is it up to Greg to be making those kind of decisions for him? Should he call Sherlock? Greg shivers at the idea of the turnabout; for years he and Mycroft worked together to rescue and protect Sherlock, mostly from himself. It goes against the grain to reverse the circumstances.

Still, Sherlock is Mycroft’s family and Greg is only…. What exactly? All they have had is two sort-of-dates and neither have gone well.

He is still deep in thought when they pull up at Mycroft’s house. As expected, the security team have been in communication and the front door is wide open, filled by the expansive form of Evans, antipathy rolling off him waves.

________________

“I’ll take him from here, Sir.” Evans looms up beside the car as Greg walks around to help the immobile Mycroft out.

“No, it’s fine, I’ve got this.”

“With respect, Sir, until I am able to ascertain otherwise, you are the cause of Mr. Holmes’ current situation. I would ask you to step back into the car.”

Greg’s policeman brain kicks in and he can see the situation from Evan’s point of view. He entered the office of a functioning Mycroft, with a package, and had left with a sick Mycroft Holmes. On balance, he’d be his own prime suspect too.

“Yeah, yeah. Alright, but he’s… I told your colleagues he vomited, and he did, but there’s-” Greg trails off, unsure how much to say to a man who is essentially Mycroft’s employee. The most private man in the world would not thank him for sharing his intimate details.

“There’s what?” 

Greg sighs, rubs his hand over his face. “More to it than the vomiting.” He straightens himself up, “I did bring sandwiches but neither of us touched them. Your colleague at the office can confirm they are still in their bag, which is on the floor by his desk. Have them checked.”

Mycroft leans his cheek against the cool of the car window and half listens to the two men squabbling. Part of him wants to step out, take control of the situation, smooth things over. Unfortunately, he finds he doesn’t care enough to make himself move. It’s nice in here, in the car; warm, comfortable and safe. His driver is sat in silence, awaiting his command. He might stay here forever.

The door opens and hands reach in, gripping his bicep, trying to get him up. Mycroft resists, he wants to stay here. 

“Come on Sir, let’s get you inside. You’ll be more comfortable in there.”

Mycroft shakes his head, tries to pull his arm out of Evan’s grip.

“See, you’re upsetting him again. Stop.” Greg crouches down inside the open car door. “Mycroft, we need to go in now, have some tea. I’m gasping, aren’t you?” Their eyes meet for the first time since the office and Greg offers a tiny smile.

“Tea.” It’s the first word Mycroft has uttered since Greg,s arrival and his voice sounds odd in his own head, strained. Weak. He would very much like some tea, though.

Mycroft allows Evans to lead him into the house. They sit at his kitchen table and he stares out at his garden as the kettle boils. Greg sits next to him.

“Why is your phone not ringing?” Mycroft asks the question without looking at Greg.

“Oh, I err…. I took the afternoon off. When I came over, I thought we might... “ He drops his voice, “I was going to try and persuade you to bunk off work.” He looks around him. “This is not what I had in mind, though. Are you feeling a bit better now?”

“There is nothing wrong with me.” The imperious statement falls from Mycroft's tongue with well-practised ease.

“Did he have an episode of dissociation? Fear, and lack of comprehension?” Evans plonks three mugs of tea on the table in front of them.

Greg doesn’t want to have this conversation with Mycroft sat right next to him. Instead he meets Evan’s eyes for a moment and gives a decisive nod. He receives one in return. Apparently this is not the first time. Mycroft picks up his mug and sips his tea, disappointed it is not in a proper cup. 

“Tea, then a rest.” Evans states.”I’ll take care of you, won’t I Mycroft?”

“Perhaps we should call his doctor? I was even wondering if we should bring-”

A bang from the front door interrupts Greg’s sentence. Evans leaps to his feet.

“Gentlemen.” Sherlock storms into the room, crossing to the table in four long strides, coat flying behind him. John marches in his wake, “What have you done to my brother?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am not a doctor or mental health professional. However, some of this chapter is informed by my own experience of depression.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft accepts help in many different forms and has to make a decision.
> 
> For the prompt, hot and cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Mycroft accepts personal and professional help, including taking medication. Often, anti-depressants get a bad rap and yes, they are not without their side affects and problems. My own experience with depression is that the right medication, in the right doses, is incredibly helpful. It took me too long to accept this, and I share this only in the hope that someone, somewhere will put their own concerns aside and have a conversation with a doctor. Of course, mental health is a multi-faceted, personal and complex matter and Mycroft is receiving all the necessary care and support.
> 
> Thank you, Breath4Soul for your excellent beta help.

 

The men turn in tandem to stare at Sherlock while John drifts over to Mycroft’s side.

“Hi Mycroft, mind if I sit down?”

When his presence remains unacknowledged, John pulls out the chair beside Mycroft. He casts an eye at Sherlock, who is busy ranting at Evans and Greg about not having contacted him sooner.

“Do you mind if I check your pulse, as I’m here?” Mycroft stirs and offers John his wrist. His pulse is a little elevated but John is far more concerned about the lack of resistance from Mycroft; the absence of his jacket, the loosened tie and inability to make eye contact. He casts around; there is no sign of an umbrella anywhere. He watches as Mycroft rubs his finger back and forth along the edge of the table, over and over.

Sherlock’s rant seems to be winding down a bit, so John seizes his chance.

“Greg, what’s happened here?”

“I called over to his office, brought sandwiches for lunch and things were … fine. Then he suddenly vomits and kind of, well, froze up in himself. Sort of a panic attack, I suppose, but he was breathing fine, just he seemed… well, terrified.” 

“Did he eat the lunch you brought?” 

“No. Never even opened the bag. John, why are you and Sherlock here?”

John nodded in Sherlock’s direction. “Your call. Sherlock was stood next to me at the time. He had already been on the phone to Sally. She had rung looking for his help on something, told him you were off for the afternoon, so we knew you weren’t on a case. He did his thing and decided Mycroft was in trouble of some kind.”

“And I was right.” Sherlock announces, glaring at Greg. “You idiots should have called me sooner.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t exactly work like that, does it mate? I mean,  _ he _ looks after  _ you _ , gets you out of trouble. Never seen it happening the other way round.” 

Sherlock sniffs. “And  _ yet _ , here I am.”

Sherlock stalks to the table, taking the chair opposite Mycroft. He studies him, eyes scanning up and down. One eyebrow raises in surprise and he flicks a fleeting look at Greg Lestrade. A corresponding flicker at Robert Evans results in a crease between his eyebrows. 

“Filling an aquarium, Brother mine?” he murmurs. “Greg, shouldn’t you be getting back to work?”

“Yeah. Er, Mycroft, I’ll call you, alright?” Despite not really expecting a response, the silence is still disconcerting. Greg pushes a worried hand through his hair and turns for the door. Evans escorts him from the premises in silence.

Sherlock sits back in the chair, legs extended under the table and Belstaff wrapped around him. He regards Mycroft for another long moment.

“Drink your tea, Mycroft. It helps.”

To John’s amazement, Mycroft does as instructed and Sherlock sits up and leans over the table towards him. He gives John a nod that would be imperceptible to anyone else, but John is on the alert, ready for any eventuality. 

In the silence of the room, Sherlock's voice is low and gentle. “I know it’s Eurus, Mycroft; Sherrinford, and the Warden.” For the first time since their arrival, Mycroft meets Sherlock’s eyes. “But how does it happen? Sudden noises? Smells? Voices?  Visions? Ah.” Sherlock’s eyes never leave his brother’s face and John knows he is going to push this. “The last two. The blood?”

Mycroft drops his face into his hands and Sherlock glances at John. John is using Sherlock’s subtle clues to build a diagnosis. Definitely PTSD, but if Mycroft is hearing voices and having visions, it is bordering on psychosis. With practiced professionalism, he tamps down his alarm and begins running through further tests needed, a hierarchy of treatments. 

Sherlock reaches his hand across the table and wraps his fingers around Mycroft’s wrist. John thinks he’s checking his brother’s pulse until Sherlock continues the movement, a steady slide until he is cradling Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft drops his arm and the two brothers clasp hands across the middle of the table. Mycroft raises his eyes to Sherlock who gives a tiny smile and a firm nod in reply.

_______________

“You are doing really well at taking better care of yourself, Mycroft. How are you feeling about the time you’ve taken off from work”? 

The psychiatrist's insistence that he take a minimum of three months leave had been the topic of much discussion. Beyond the first couple of weeks, when even he knew he was too unwell to work, Mycroft had not understood the need. He had alternated between cajoling, insisting and sulking to persuade the man to change his mind. The psychiatrist, Dr. Keyes, had remained steadfast. 

The resulting lengthy discussions about Mycroft’s need to feel he was indispensable, coupled with his powerful desire to exert control, had been uncomfortable but revealing. They had regularly explored his sense of responsibility towards both Eurus and Sherlock and at what age he had taken this responsibility over from their parents. 

The realisation that he had taken it, entirely of his own choice, rather than having such responsibilities thrust upon him by circumstances, forced Mycroft to accept the conceit. His intelligence had not given him the right to take over. Their parents were perfectly capable of making decisions, and caring for their children, but he had robbed them of that right. The assumption that he  _ knew better _ was what had led to much of this mess. He was paying the price now for his arrogance. Pride comes before a fall, he berated himself. 

He had baulked at the doctor’s assertion that Mycroft had, 

“A very big heart, capable of much love, and a craving to care for others.” Mycroft had countered that controlling, manipulation, lying and constant monitoring was not caring.

“Not a conventional form, but it is still your key motivation. You need to accept that about yourself. We will work on more positive ways for you to express that to those you care about.”

All of which has led to today’s difficult session, where he has had to accept these things. And then try to forgive himself.

________________

Mycroft sits back on the sofa staring out at his garden. There is a man - he doesn’t know his name - working out there, down on his knees pulling weeds. It must be a nice job, being a gardener. Simple, with the efforts of your hard work obvious to all.

Mycroft is exhausted; the half drunk cup of tepid tea in his hands is not making any difference. He leaves the cup down and rests his head back on the sofa, eyes closed. The therapy session had been draining. 

After weeks of skirting around it with the skilled avoidance of a diplomat, today he finally had to confront his incarceration of Eurus as a child; her incarceration and the subsequent lies to their parents. He had waged war against the tears; for Eurus but also for his teenage self taking on such decisions. He was only now beginning to realise the inappropriateness of his involvement in the process at all. Despite his best efforts, the tears had won out in the end and now he is empty; drained and washed through. His eyes and face are sore and his throat is raw. Even his stomach muscles ache from the paroxysm of tears. 

A wave of shame washes over him at the memory of his weakness, his capitulation to these feelings. His reaction to this comes quicker, more easily than before; the daily practice starting to wear a smooth, deep groove in his neural pathways. Be kind to yourself;  relaxes as he repeats the affirmation over and over again. Be kind to yourself, it’s going to be ok.

Of course, the medication helps, makes it easier. At least it does now. The psychiatrist John had taken him to had explained that finding the right medications would be a case of trial and error, both in finding the correct type and dosage. The doctor warned him that things may well get worse before they got better. He had been correct. A week of surging anger followed by plummeting despair had resulted in a smashed up formal living room, family photos thrown at the fireplace. He had spent the subsequent hour rocking in Evan’s arms under the Victorian writing desk.

At the thought of Evan’s arms, Mycroft’s eyes drift shut. Evans has been there throughout, a silent sentry outside the therapist’s door, a watchful eye throughout the house. Soothed by the knowledge he is outside the door right now, Mycroft pulls up the blanket from the end of the sofa, curls up in a ball and drifts off.

The images of his dream are shards of coloured glass, falling and splintering around him; Eurus smiling at him silently, Sherlock holding his hand, John and Rosie playing, Greg Lestrade’s warm brown eyes and Evan’s strong, straight back. There is a warm smell, sweet, with cinnamon and treacle. Soft hands hold his and he laughs. Other hands smooth over him, warm and gentle, a single finger sliding over his now bare chest, shoulders and arms. The stroking lulls him into a daze, waves of softness beneath him. The hand is going lower, stroking over his legs, tops of his feet, up over hips then inner thighs. A voice caramelises in his ear, “You’re such a good boy”. A single, feather-light kiss and he is coming, the orgasm tingling up through his thighs and belly until it coalesces at the head of his penis and explodes.

Mycroft wakes sharply, his orgasm still echoing through him, a sticky puddle seeping through his trousers. 

_____________

Six weeks into his enforced break from work and Mycroft is seeing the wisdom of it. Dr. Keyes has been encouraging him to focus his energy on self-care and to take the same level of responsibility for himself as he has always done for others. So, he takes time to enjoy things he had relegated to a very minor part of his life; sleeping, eating good food, being outdoors in the fresh air. At his doctor’s suggestion, he and Evans are taking regular runs outside rather than on a treadmill. He has never had the time before and it’s an unexpected pleasure.

Today’s session has taken an unexpected turn. Mycroft stares at the books lining the far wall of the room as Dr. Keyes suggests a new topic for discussion.

“It’s time we talked about you allowing others to take care of you. I know we have discussed your relationship with your brother and - what did we agree to call John? - brother-to-be, but what about other relationships? Do you have any romantic attachments? Is that something that interests you? How do you take care of your sexual needs?”

Mycroft considers the chaos of his sex life six weeks ago. Would he consider any of it to have been a romantic relationship? Both Evans and Lestrade have been kind and friendly in recent weeks but, understandably, both have taken a step back. Had he made rational decisions and choices? He had believed so; it had all made perfect sense at the time. Mycroft realises Dr. Keyes is patiently awaiting his answer.

“Until my … episode, I was engaging in sexual activity with two different men. Both were new partners, although I have known one of them for a number of years.”

“What about now?”

“No. I have not felt that way inclined. Nor, I suspect, have either of my partners.”

“Before, these partners, how long was it since you had had a romantic relationship?”

Mycroft stares at the man. “A very long time.” 

“Do you still see them? Your new partners, I mean.” Mycroft is very glad for the change in subject.

“Yes.” Evans is stood outside the door.

“Why do you think you started not one, but two, new sexual relationships in recent months?”

“The opportunity presented itself.”

“Even with the person you have known for years? Had there ever been a previous opportunity?” There had. Mycroft knew there had, but he had shut it down, ignored his attraction to Greg. He had spent years in a deliberate and efficient effort to shut down any, and all, feelings he had towards other people; romantic and sexual especially. 

Dr. Keyes’ expectant silence is beginning to grate on Mycroft’s nerves. He knows the only way to move on is to provide an answer.

“Yes,” he sighs.

“So, why do you think you only acted on it recently?”

“I - I… That is to say… The recent events, on the island...with my sister...seems to have dented my resolve.”

“Resolve?”

Oh, they were going to keep prodding at this. Jolly good. “Yes, my resolve not to engage in a relationship. They are … boring and pointless.”

“So why do you think your resolve is waning now, Mycroft?”

“Weakness, on my behalf, I suppose.” Mycroft sighs.

Dr. Keyes waits to see if Mycroft has anything to add. When it is obvious, this is his only thought on the subject, the doctor shakes his head.

“It’s not weakness to want human companionship, or physical comfort. We all need to be touched and cared for Mycroft. I am sure you have heard of being ‘touch starved’?” 

Mycroft had encountered the concept; he regularly read ‘Psychology Today’ for a little light reading to keep his negotiation skills tip-top. It had never occurred to him such a concept might apply to himself. He nods in acknowledgement.

“Do you think it is possible that, while experiencing severe stress, you may have reached out for some comfort?”

“I suppose it is possible.” Such banal behaviour. Mycroft was mildly disappointed in himself. Had his dramatic increase in libido been the result of his altered brain chemistry?

Dr. Keyes gives him a small smile.“Ok, then. Well, we have been talking about self-care, and you have been doing very well recently. So I am setting you an exercise in self-care. I would like you to give some thought to asking someone on a date. It can be anyone of your choosing, but someone whom you would like a romantic, and perhaps, sexual relationship with. Do you think you could do that?”

Despite the way his stomach lurched into his knees, Mycroft thinks he probably can. The question is, whom should he ask?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well? Who do you think Mycroft should choose?
> 
> Are you wondering where the hot and cold comes into this chapter? Fair enough, it is a bit sub-textual, but is there. I'd love to hear your views on it and I will share my own perspective.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft struggles with asking someone out and decides he is simply not going to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for taking so long with this chapter. It gave me some trouble and rl got in the way, both for me and my beta. But it's here now!
> 
> For the prompt, Epistolary

Mycroft flexes and taps his fingers next to his laptop mouse pad, staring at the blank word processor page in front of him. This had seemed a good idea; a way of focusing his thoughts but instead he is unable to concentrate.

Mycroft’s thoughts have always reached out ahead of him like a three-dimensional, sometimes four-dimensional, chess game. He could keep track of every nuance, each detail and spread them all out; an undulating, living thing. A change to _this_ data point would send out ripples of cause and effect on the rest of whatever he was considering. He would track all these simultaneous changes and see their outcome; the end game. Should he wish to examine any given data point in greater detail, he would freeze all the others and zoom in on this one, lift it up and consider it from all angles.

He had never had to work at this; it just was. Memory techniques, such as Sherlock’s Mind Palace,were unnecessary. Everything was there, all within easy reach. Of course, the more data points he had, the easier it was to project the outcome and so he had cultivated a life that enabled him to secure the information he needed. Yes, there had been one or two grumbles about him “invading privacy” and “overstepping boundaries.” He gave this little heed; his work was for the greater good, the bigger picture that often only he could see.

Which is why he is now finding sitting in front of this blasted laptop and trying to make a decision so frustrating. The effects of his illness and its medication were partly responsible; there had definitely been a slowing down, but that was not the biggest of his problems. Mycroft is accustomed to making decisions for people he had never, and would never, meet. They rarely had any direct impact on himself. In his everyday life, he delegated mundane decisions to his staff.

But this decision is different; this leaves him wide open. Open to making a terrible error of judgement, open to embarrassment and wide open to rejection.

He sighs, shoulders slumping, hands falling away from the laptop to land on the sofa. This is the nub of it, Mycroft chastises himself, this is your real stumbling block; your own vanity and pride. Mycroft Holmes has never asked anyone out for the simple reason that it saved the other person the inconvenience of saying ‘no’. And if that has been the case before, he is now even further from being a ‘catch’. Unattractive; sarcastic, overbearing and now, mentally unbalanced.

This is ridiculous. A nonsensical idea. How is this even supposed to help improve his mental health? He has spent the three days since Dr. Keyes suggested it alternating from confusion and frustration to anger and impatience. Right, that’s it decided. He isn’t doing it.

“Why not?” Dr. Keyes asks at their meeting the following day. “You have done every single other exercise I have set you. What is different about this one, Mycroft?”

Mycroft smooths his immaculate blue trousers, staring at his manicured hands as he prepares his answer. “I simply cannot see the sense in it. How can asking someone out improve my mental state? It has done nothing but trouble me since you raised the idea.”

“What troubles you about it?” Dr. Keyes relaxes back into his favoured wing-backed chair, crossing his legs. His deliberate obtuseness infuriates Mycroft.

“The whole notion is a disaster. You have met me; I am irascible, controlling, patronising and manipulative,“ he spits. “The whole point of dating is to see if you want to engage in a relationship. I do not. Want to engage, that is. So, it is pointless.” Mycroft wishes he had his umbrella with him. He would dearly love to jam its tip into the parquet floor to reinforce his statement.

“Why do you not wish to engage in a relationship?” Voice calm, Dr. Keyes fixes Mycroft with a steady, blue-eyed gaze.

Mycroft sighs. This man is beginning to get on his nerves. “Have you not been listening to me? I have listed out the reasons!”

“No. You have given me some words which you believe describes why _someone else_ would choose not to have a relationship with you. I am asking why _you_ do not want to have a relationship with someone else?

“Because people bore me!” Mycroft can hear the vanity, the pompous egotism in his words. He has a sudden recollection of Sherlock’s first day back from being dead. He had asked whether Mycroft had found himself a ‘goldfish’ during his absence. Sherlock had insinuated Mycroft was lonely. Of course, he had refuted such a suggestion. Sherlock had gently asked how he would know.

How will he know, unless he tries? Certainly, he has company but is it enough? Is it necessary for him to become truly intimate with another human being? Is he even capable of such a thing? Why has he avoided it for so long?

Dr. Keyes gives him a few moments to mull these things over. “Mycroft, it is not essential to have a relationship to be happy. Far from it. But you will never know if you don’t try. You have been through some very difficult times recently and your life has often been one of sacrifice, of doing the right thing, protecting others. Protecting the whole country, even.”

He pauses, pushing his glasses back up his nose. “But you have this space at the moment, time to think of yourself. I knew my request would make you uncomfortable. It was my intention to push you out of your comfort zone. Tell me this; what do you think will happen if you do ask someone out on a date?”

A resigned Mycroft dips his head.

“Anyone intelligent enough for me to be interested in, would have sufficient intelligence to say ‘no’.”

“Why do you think they would say ‘no’?”

Mycroft rolls his eyes, tucks his feet in under his chair and smooths down his waistcoat. “For all the reasons previously outlined. The recent mental breakdown, the psychotic sister, the demanding hours of my job. This…” Mycroft waves a disparaging hand up and down his seated self. “Shall I go on?”

Making a brief note on the pad in his lap, Dr. Keyes raises his blue eyes to meet Mycroft’s and smiles. “You’ve had no shortage of male company recently.” He flicks back through a couple of pages. “Mr. Lestrade is still visiting you?”

“Detective _Inspector_ Lestrade.” Mycroft corrects. “Yes, he has.”

“He seems to have been a good friend to you. He doesn’t appear to have been put off by any of the things you have just outlined, none of which I happen to agree with, by the way. This is a risk we all have to take Mycroft. None of us knows whether an invitation will be accepted or rejected. It’s a chance we have to take. I appreciate there is a lack of control and that is an issue for you but take a deep breath and jump in - just ask. The worst thing that can happen is you are told ‘No’. You can do this, Mycroft.”

Mycroft sighs. He is clearly not going to be let off the hook.

*****

In the end, Mycroft resorts to an over-simplified analysis tool. He even uses a pen and piece of paper, sat at the wrought-iron table on the patio outside the small summer house. The weather has been warming as they move into late spring and his garden is full of daffodils and early tulips.

**Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade**

**Pros** :

Handsome

Nice hair

Close in age

Loyal

Kind

Gentle (when necessary)

Intelligent/Highly trained

Good listener

Available/no ties

Responsible, sense of duty.

Sexually Experienced

Has a uniform (? never seen but must have one)

Has expressed a long term interest

 

**Cons:**

Wears awful suits (could be addressed)

Often in need of a shave

Too close to Sherlock - open to interference/complications

Too much history (again re: Sherlock)

Irregular work hours/demanding job

Possible conflict in jurisdiction of work

Sexually Experienced - high expectations?

Mycroft considers the last point on each list. His own relative lack of experience, despite his recent surge in sexual activity, still concerns him. When he is confident there is nothing else to add to the list, he turns the page over and and begins anew.

**Captain Robert Evans**

**Pros** :

Tall

Strong

Broad chest

Military bearing

Clean Shaven

Conveniently close

Loyal

Gentle (when necessary)

Intimidating (impressive) when necessary

Kind (is he kind to me because he is paid to be?)

Confident

Has a uniform

Intelligent/Highly trained

Mycroft wavers for a moment, surprised at the word that has popped into his head and the tiny thrill it has sent through him. He writes it down anyway.

Dominant

 

 **Cons** :

Member of staff/employee

In active military service

Adult child and ex-wife - potential complications

Sexually experienced

Mycroft raises his eyes to look at the fountain in the near distance. These two men have a surprising amount in common; both have been married to women, both work in the public services protecting their fellow citizens. Both men are bright, interesting and have been extremely kind to him. It would seem he has a ‘type’. Mycroft’s lips quirk up at such a notion.

He reviews his list, checking for anything he may have missed. He returns again to consider his use of the word ‘dominant’. A frisson of lust licks up his spine as he revisits his night spent with Evans in his bed; the way he gave up his control so quickly. The memory slides away and morphs into the sight of Greg Lestrade on his knees next to Mycroft’s desk. His cock fills and thickens at the image. A quick glance around confirms Mycroft is alone and far enough away from the main house not to be seen. He strokes himself carefully through his trousers. This is the first time he has had any inclination to masterbate since that incident in the office. He backs away from that memory, returning to the memory of Evans in full dress uniform. Unbuttoning his trousers, Mycroft drops his zip and reaches in to his underware to release his hard cock. The air is cool on his skin as he pushes his boxer shorts down just a bit do the waist band sits snuggly under his balls.

His first stroke is slow and teasing as he imagines Detective Inspector Lestrade in his uniform, or at least Mycroft’s version of it. In reality, trousers that form hugging would be very impractical for a policeman, Mycroft acknowledges to himself. He speeds up his strokes, vaguely aware that it won’t be long before someone comes to check on him. How would Evans react if he found him like this? As his arousal grows, the images in his mind become less specific; the hint of a toned pectoral, a well muscled thigh, the brush of lips against his and heated words, whispered in his ear, urging him to come.

Mycroft’s orgasm hits him hard, his body curling up slightly over himself as his abdomen contracts with the force. He is surprised at the amount of ejaculate until realising it must be at least six weeks since he last came.

His clean up is nominal, his handkerchief the only resource he has to hand.

Breathing returning to normal, he picks up the list; it hasn’t been much help. The men are more alike than they are different and nothing leaps out at him that makes him jump in either direction. He folds the paper and slips it into his inside jacket pocket.

He has given some thought to the control issues that Dr. Keyes alluded to. To ask someone else out, to put yourself at that kind of risk and just stand back at wait for their decision, makes him uncomfortable. If he had some idea as to how either of these men might respond to such an invitation it would, at least, reduce some of that risk. Maybe he could test the waters?

*******

**Sent**

I have a matter I wish to discuss with you.

I have left an item for you in the kitchen.

Please retrieve.

  **Evans**

I’m sat right here. Looking at you.

Could we just talk about it?

 

**Sent**

No. Kindly retrieve item

 

**Evans**

Ok. Item retrieved. Next

communication will be from package

**Secure comms No: 20793**

I am presuming this is secured?

Can we now talk freely.

 

 **Sent**.

Yes. I apologise for the

subterfuge. I needed to be sure our communications were private.

**Secure comms No: 20793**

Are you OK?. Have you been threatened? Internal concern?

**Sent**

No. It is of a personal nature.

**Robert**

OK?

**Sent**

Yes, I wish to ask you a question,

if I may?

**Robert**

Of course.

**Sent**

I have recently been considering

the possibility of undertaking a personal relationship.

**Robert**

Right.

**Robert**

I mean, that’s good.

**Sent**

However, I am unsure of the

appropriate way to initiate such a relationship.

**Robert**

You would like some advice?

**Sent**

Of a sort, yes.

**Robert**

I might be the wrong person.

I haven’t had a relationship since my divorce.

  **Robert**

Never met the right person. Not one worth the complications, anyway.

**Robert**

You can imagine with this job.

**Robert**

Mycroft, you still there?

**Sent**

Apologies. I must attend to something.

**Robert**

Oh. Ok?

 

Hand shaking, Mycroft leaves down the phone. The whole exchange has him drenched in adrenaline and his heart is still pounding. Robert made himself quite clear; he does not want a relationship. Part dissapointed, part relieved, Mycroft stares out of his bedroom window. It would be too complicated, anyway, he decides.

It also confirms his argument against Dr. Keyes’ thinking; why would anyone want to go out with him? Confident of a rejection and no longer terrified by the possibility of having to actually go out on a date, of all things, he reaches again for the phone and sends another text, a mere formality this time.

**Sent**

Detective Inspector, I was wondering if

you might care to join me for dinner on Thursday

at Maison de Pierre?

  


**Author's Note:**

> My laptop has died! This was written on my phone, so may have errors I have missed.


End file.
